Burning Fire, Burning Sorrow
by LadyPorpoise
Summary: More happened at Feanor's fight with the balrogs and his death. The cause of his demise could have been compounded with his mortal wounds: the severing his spirit from his body in order to withstand the heat for so long. And then there is Namo standing at the edge of the scene, slowly drawing the elf's soul to him. Feanor had it coming though, and nothing was going to change that.


_A/N I think whenever I do Silmarillion oneshots, half the time they're like studies I do to explain why I think the way I do and my personal canon._

 _So,...I believe the Valar did have more involvement with the things of Middle-Earth than is implied. But why don't they do anything? Because the elves and men didn't want anything to do with them and wanted to set out their own destinies. While it is not a smart plan since the Valar kind of know a lot more and can tell how things would end (credit to the Song/Eru's wisdom), they won't force themselves on the people of Middle-Earth because it is respect of free-choice, but there is a limit that can be breached where they will have to step in so everything doesn't blow up._

 _I also tend to put emphasis on the Song a lot in my writings, because that to me is how things are supposed to be. The Will of God. Going astray from that would be equivalent to sin. The Valar act out Eru's will (angels essentially), even if that means not doing anything because the elves basically said: stay out of our lives. The response: Alright, you can do that, but don't expect it to be all handy dandy in the end. The elves (and men) have to own up to their choices and actions._

* * *

Fëanor pressed ever onward towards his enemy, stabbing whatever orc that was unfortunate to not run fast enough. The barren plains came closer the further the fey elf continued his pursuit. Very few were able to keep up with him, as the fire of his being was quickened and gave him an unnatural source of strength and speed. It could not be said the same for his mind though.

Fëanor only stopped for a moment as he beheld the great demons of fire and smoke. He grinned broadly and let out a laugh: one that bordered the edge of insanity. "Is this the best you got, black-heart? You will taste the bite of my steel, demons!"

The balrogs exhaled: letting out a large wave of smoke and embers to scatter the ground. Fëanor found it unintimidating, he spent enough time in the forge to not be afraid of stray sparks.

"My lord, this is madness!" one of the king's followers cried out in terror at the sight.

"Then fall back, like the miserable cowards that you are!" Fëanor barked coldly. He had come too bloody far to retreat now!

The orcs rerouted around after their fire-masters were there to help. The few elves that managed to follow, only two stayed faithful to their king and the others fled. The earth shook as each of the demons made one step forward, and the orcs shrieked in both glee and fright. Fëanor's silver eyes shone like stars as he too slowly walked towards the enemy. The other elves present would say later that the son of Finwë never shone brighter at that hour: shining like the stars above as his fiery spirit slowly came to the surface.

The orcs screamed; some fell to the ground as if struck dead at the sudden source of light. The balrogs growled, also unsettled by the sight, but not by much.

Fëanor became oblivious to everything that was physical, his mind and heart hell-bent on destroying these demons to get to his real enemy. One clash after another he slew all who came at him. The berserkers were challenging, but they were blinded by the light radiating off of the son of Finwë, allowing him to cut them off. He did get some bad nicks here and there, but they were of little bother to him. Soon enough the balrogs started to close in on him, having enough of this foul play. Fëanor only took immense, dark, disturbing pleasure in the sport and that his soul was so close to the surface.

He felt so _alive_! This hroä was nothing but a hindrance to his full power!

'You have stepped beyond your boundaries, son of the Eldar,' a cold, powerful voice declared.

Fëanor ended up gasping as a sharp pain reached his chest. He felt no blood coming forth from any wound there. And that voice! He had heard it declare the doom, the curse…

Evading a whip strike which made the ground alight with fire, Fëanor's eyes darted around for the other person. _They_ had to be here, there would be no other reason! Blast it to the void, he was busy, and this distracted and hindered his power!

Fëanor lost his breath again and made a full turn, only this time getting a lash to the back that partially melted his armor. The immense heat he did feel despite being numb to the numerous wounds he already possessed, and he suppressed a groan in pain. Beyond the encircling fire and smoke, he saw the person standing atop a small hill, a hand outstretched.

What made Fëanor's burning eyes widen was watching white mist being drawn towards those hands: his own spirit.

He was dying.

"NO! How could you do this?!" He screamed at the figure and blindly tried charging to his new target: Námo. The problem remained of another balrog being in his way, and the demon scratched the front of Fëanor's breastplate with its great claws. The heat was beginning to win over with melting metal and burning skin.

'You have stepped beyond what is tolerable, Fëanáro,' Námo stated again telepathically to the elf. 'For this act of continued blasphemy: you risk yourself becoming Morgoth's slave. We will _not_ allow that.'

"You steal my chance for revenge!…You _ruin_ our chances for success!" Fëanor screamed in outrage and in pain. The draining of his soul was weakening his ability to resist the pain and to continue like this. The forced charge was finally taking its toll on Fëanor's body.

'You have gone astray from the Song, Fëanáro.' Námo said again, the coldness diminishing and returning to factual grimness.

'You said you would not hinder us…' Fëanor thought in angry bewilderment, his hate for the Valar increasing. The mighty elf found himself on the ground, struggling to breathe and he writhed slightly from the burns and half melted limbs he now possessed. Through dim vision, he watched as the balrogs flee from something in terror. He saw dark-clad figures with scythes chase them like wisps in a forest. Given the fact the Vala of Death was present, it would not surprise him if some of his Maiar were here too.

But why was no one else seeing them?

Námo's voice became sad. 'And hinder we will not, and neither shall we aid you. Your recklessness has brought this woe upon you. I am only here in consequence to that.'

"There he is! Quickly, get him away from here!" Fëanor heard his eldest's voice command with desperate tones and immense fear. The father was not caring too much about that, throwing every curse and foul word he knew towards the Valar and their ilk, unknowing that it hurt the heart of the One who made him.

* * *

Fëanor drifted in and out of consciousness in response to the sheer exhaustion he suffered from and the forced medicines he took for the pain. One thing that did not change was Námo's constant presence. The Vala walked alongside Fëanor's sons and other elves aside, but they never seemed to be aware of the Ainu's presence. Fëanor also felt odd too, like he was not fully planted to this world, and it was not due to the wounds he suffered from. His heart felt…broken.

'You severed your spirit when you faced the balrogs,' Námo told him softly. 'No elf can survive their fëa being exposed for so long as you did. You are fading, Fëanáro, and nothing can stop it.'

'But you can,' Fëanor hissed his reply in his mind.

'But you will not accept our help, will you?' Námo questioned neutrally; his face grim and unchanging.

After all _they_ did (refusing to acknowledge that he did anything wrong), Fëanor would not accept the Valar's help. He tried, and he did what he set out to do, and he would be content with that, even _if_ he failed. It was Námo's fault…if the Vala had not intervened…

'He is doing what he is bidden to do,' something whispered in the back of his mind. 'You were dying, and that was why he came.'

Fëanor resigned himself to his ultimate doom and bade his sons stop their trek. It became increasingly harder to stay conscious and aware of what happened around him, yet he made sure of it that his sons would finish what he started. After cursing Morgoth's name three times, he finally let himself be still to await the inevitable.

Námo's face hovered above him. 'In bitterness you will unlearn Morgoth's lies. But it will not be now.' The Vala said in a voice that sounded ominous and gentle. 'You shall have your rest.'

Feanor inhaled sharply as _everything_ started to hurt. This went beyond the burns from the balrogs and the wounds from orcish blades. This, this was an absolute nightmare as Death's black hole came to trap him in its darkness.

He screamed, and then he knew nothing more, leaving his body to crumple into ashes.

* * *

Námo held the bright white ball that was Fëanor's life: the record of it and the breath that sustained him. He grieved for the sons as they wept for their loss. The Vala was not cold-hearted in that regard, one might say he was almost like Nienna, except he felt sorrow over the wounds the children suffered more than the pains of the earth itself.

He gave the life source to another Maia, who would transport it back to Mandos for Fëanor's case to be reviewed. The elf would be sleeping for a long time, the Vala knew that much…

But it was this, or allow Melkor to have complete dominance over the elf's will and life: turning Fëanor into one of the most wretched creatures ever to walk the land, and it would be a heavy blow to their hearts to see such a blessed child fall so low. Eru would never allow that, but it did not mean Fëanor was not going to suffer any consequences for his rebellion. Death was the first to come…and when he woke up…

Then the pain of relearning truths Fëanor knew long before Melkor left that dark tendril to cling to the elf's soul: corrupting everything that made Fëanor so unique and special, would begin. It would be a painful process…but if it meant getting Fëanor back into harmony with the Song, then they would do it. They would not let him suffer needlessly at the hands of the enemy.

Alas, if only the others would reach out to the Powers, they could escape a lot of sorrow that was soon to befall on them...


End file.
